


a love like ours

by LowDawn (EmpiricalBias)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Food Service, M/M, New York City, and lots of fluff, restaurant AU, warning for light blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpiricalBias/pseuds/LowDawn
Summary: “We should take a nap,” Lúcio mumbles, genuinely tempted by the thought of staying wrapped in these arms, this man, forever.





	

He wakes at 7 AM to a brush of lips over his temple.

 _Oh,_ Lúcio thinks, then: _No; it’s still too early to wake up._ He’s been on nonstop closing shifts for days, now, and nearly all of them have been the kind that keep him from coming home until midnight. The late nights aren’t unusual in itself - Sol has always done better in the winter, and Lúcio’s lingered at work for less important reasons before - but the restaurant’s been victim to an influx of media attention lately, no thanks to the presence of a certain interning Korean starlet (and her veritable coalition of reality television staff and crew), which is why he’s exhausted in a way he can only _pray_ the two days off the coming weekend will alleviate.

A familiarly calloused thumb sweeps over his cheekbone, ruining his train of thought - and alright, fine, he concedes. He’s properly awake now. The long breath that he pulls through his nose is leisurely with sleep, but provides the oxygen rush needed to shake the lead from his limbs as he reaches blindly out of the covers.

Genji catches his hand, guides it to his cheek; Lúcio tugs him down and feels the corner of his own mouth curl up at the kiss pressed to it, the warmth in the smile that chases immediately after. It’s indulgent in a way that’s almost too much, honestly; but he’s only been moved in a month, and in the seven they’ve actually been dating (aside from all the flirting, the snuck looks, the shared coffee, the going out for drinks too many times a week before that) he’s learned Genji is far more sentimental than he lets on. And, well, maybe he thinks that’s cute.

It wouldn’t be the first thing about Genji he thinks is cute.

The moment passes. Genji stands, and Lúcio lets his hand fall, accepting the covers that are tugged over his shoulders with a sigh. They both breathe quietly in lieu of their usual back-and-forth. (“Morning,” and, “See you later.” Like a rhythm; he falls into it more easily every day.) This is fine, Lúcio decides; Genji is probably as tired as he is. The pang of sympathy is enough that he spends the effort to stay conscious a little longer. Just enough to hear the rattle of a ring of keys being picked up, and the muffled _clack-clackt_ of the door to their room admitting leave to one pair of footsteps.

That done, he lets himself slip effortlessly back to sleep.

The next time Lúcio wakes it's to the scream of his work-contacts-only ringtone and he has no earthly clue what time it is, but what he _does_ know upon being jolted awake by the noise is that his phone is doing its level best to give him heart palpitations.

He’s set this tone to this purpose for Reasons. The first is that Ringtone_Sample_9.mp3 is the most tolerable of the obnoxious preinstalled jingles on the device that he could find; the second is that the honor of subconscious association with the stress of his job is one that he _absolutely refuses_ to bestow on any of his own music.

(Frankly, it’s a hideous track: artificial brass, artificial drumline, something akin to bubblegum dewdrop noises and a gimmicky melody to top it off. Lúcio still remembers the look he’d caught on Genji’s face the first time he had heard it in use, as if he was wavering between disbelief and resignation that someone who he knows has over ten million subscribers on Youtube would actually write something that sounds this terrible, let alone use it as a _ringtone_.

“You seriously thought I wrote that,” Lúcio had accused, suppressing laughter.

“For a second I wondered if I was going to have to compliment you for it,” Genji had confessed, faintly embarrassed for himself.)

In any case, Lucio's fairly sure he can live without being conditioned to have miniature anxiety attacks to one of his EPs the way he does to this specific combination of a C# cymbal noise and plasticky guitar riff. Which, coincidentally, explains how his hand has already shot out for the screen, swiped to answer, and put the device to his ear before his brain can fully catch up to the fact that it’s supposed to be his day off.

“Yeah?” he prompts, wincing internally at the grog fully audible in his voice.

_“It’s me. You in the building?”_

What little drowsiness that survived the ringtone completely flees the scene at the voice of Gabriel Reyes, executive chef and restaurant owner.

Lúcio sits up, already running a list of scenarios that could have led to this call through his head. A grand total of none of them are good. “I’m at home,” he answers, wondering if he should be looking for a shirt. He feels for the knot of his wrap; finds it still secure, on the left side of his head. “What’s up, boss?”

“ _Good. I’m sending Genji over._ ”

Lowering the phone from his ear to check the time reveals that it's twenty minutes before 10 AM. Twenty minutes before open?

His shift normally starts at 4 PM. So much for sleeping in.

“What do you need? I can grab it instead,” Lúcio says, scooting to the edge of the mattress so he can reach his prosthetics. He taps the speaker button and sets the phone on the bed to free up both hands. Genji isn’t one to forget things and neither is Gabe, but the condo they share with three other guys keeps a fully stocked kitchen (a natural result of housing no less than four professional chefs under one roof). The only logical conclusion is that the restaurant must have run out of something.

“ _That’s not necessary,”_  Gabriel sighs. Behind him, the kitchen is working up to full swing: knives hitting the board at even and disparate rhythms, pots and pans hitting the heat, ingredients being whisked and shifted and otherwise prepped; and just above that, the sparse chatter of the morning shift. _“Relax, Lúcio.”_

Any other day he might have disregarded that, having decided on a course of action, but there’s a quality to the way Gabe says _relax_ that gives Lúcio pause. Which he does, between attaching one leg to a mechanical knee and picking up the other. He trains his ears on the background noise again.

Knives, cookware, conversation. Nothing sounds out of place. There’s no telltale note of discord he can hear - at least, not until someone speaks up, trying to draw Gabe’s attention away from the call.

In vain, obviously. “ _No,_ ” Reyes orders, as calm as he is perfectly absolute. Whoever he’s arguing with starts talking again. Reyes repeats, after a short pause, _“No, you’re going home. Listen to me, Shimada—”_

Lúcio blinks. “Is that Genji?”

“ _Hah.”_ Gabriel scoffs. “ _It wouldn’t be if he’d left when I told him to.”_

“ _I’m fine,”_ says - yup, that’s definitely Genji, sounding a little far away and utterly chagrined. “ _Chef, I’m fine. I have a day off soon, and you know it’s going to be busy today—”_

 _“You,”_ deadpans Reyes, now distanced from the receiver and speaking with the experience of a chef that has worked with a particular employee too long to _not_ know when they’re talking out of their ass, “ _nearly filleted your own hand_ twice _in thirty minutes and almost didn’t even notice. That hasn’t happened since you stayed up four nights in a row filling in for the Doomfist event. Remember that?”_

_“That was two years ago!”_

_“Well you did it again twenty seconds ago,”_ Reyes counters, coolly, “ _and I’m not risking the rest of the week on your lack of sleep. Go home. I’m calling your brother. And get that bandaged properly, you hear me?”_

That’s the end of the argument. If Lúcio can hear it, so can Genji. The line picks up the rest of the conversation less distinctly; Lúcio’s about to wonder if he was supposed to have hung up, when suddenly, Reyes is back.

_“How much of that did you catch?”_

“Most of it,” Lúcio responds, finally _actually_ starting to let himself relax.

“ _The first part?”_

“Loud and clear.”

_“Genji just left. First aid kit’s in the cabinet under the sink, left side.”_

“Thanks, Mr. Gabriel.” He means it; tries to sound like he means it, running a relieved hand down his face. Losing a day off last minute would have been _agonizing_. “Good luck today.”

A short huff is what he gets in response, which means: message received. _“Both of you get some rest. Make sure Hanzo remembers his apron on his way out.”_

“You got it.”

The call ends. Lúcio stares at the screen of his phone for a solid few seconds, then flops back onto the mattress.

It’ll take Genji less than twenty minutes to walk back from the restaurant; it’s enough time to nap, or at least doze off if he wants. Tempted as he is to try, though, it’ll be difficult for at least awhile. (He sets his phone to vibrate while he remembers, and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts.) And besides - he’d rather be there with the kit when Genji returns. The Shimada brothers may be Sol’s resident knife masters, but most people haven’t had the pleasure of spending time with them outside the workplace.

Seeing Hanzo accidentally stab himself with half a detachable pair of kitchen scissors in his own home, within a week of moving in, had been... somewhat of a surreal experience. Watching Genji drunkenly attempt to slice apples into rabbit shapes with a sashimi knife the week immediately after that should _technically_ have rated lower on that scale, but Lúcio feels he owes it to himself to rate it higher overall - on the basis of levels of distress felt while witnessing it.

In any case he, the condo’s newest and only non-culinarily inclined resident, feels justified in worrying a little.

Getting to the kitchen necessarily means he goes past the front entrance. The inner hall leads to the entrance hall and the entrance hall leads to the door, where he finds Hanzo loitering by the coat closet with a mass of gray-blue wool in his hands.

“Oh, hey,” Lúcio starts, as the older man begins looping the ridiculously long (and likely incredibly expensive) scarf around his shoulders.

“I have my apron,” Hanzo preempts without looking up.

Lúcio turns the hand he’d raised into a half-shrug, and lets it fall. It's easier than arguing. He’s halfway through a yawn when the other man finally goes to the door and puts his hand on the doorknob, only to stop; Hanzo hesitates a second, then takes another to turn a scrutinizing eye over his shoulder. Lúcio raises his eyebrows. Politely. “What is it?”

Hanzo wears gloves, like his brother. His finger bounces on the knob but makes no sound. “You know where the medicine cabinet is.”

“And the first aid kit, yeah.”

“Do not use the sprays. Gels are better.” The hinges creak as they turn; a cold draft slithers past the jamb before Hanzo can fully block it, making it as far as where Lúcio is standing. “If you can, no pills.”

It takes him a moment, but the context is clear. Lúcio mentally files the information away with a private note to _ask questions later_. “Thanks.”

Hanzo nods, then disappears through the door.

Twelve minutes have passed already. Lúcio turns for the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

“Let me see,” he demands seven minutes later, waiting until Genji pulls his hands from his coat pockets and places the left one in his extended palm to lean in for a kiss.

“It looks worse than it is,” Genji promises sheepishly, and sets about toeing off his shoes while his injury is scrutinized. His scarf goes next, sliding easily out of a haphazard knot. Then the glove on his uninjured hand, peeled off using his teeth.

Lúcio rolls back the sleeve and turns the appendage by the wrist, and hisses through his teeth at the mess he finds. The rush job isn't terrible, but it only takes a glance to see that bandages alone aren't going to staunch the bleeding. A dark blot is already starting to appear through the topmost strips of gauze. “Really,” he says, skepticism on full display.

“Really,” Genji repeats. With some assistance he shucks the rest of his outer layers and follows Lúcio to the living room in jeans and a turtleneck, wistfully eyeing the couch as they go by.

Lúcio knows he shouldn’t laugh, but. “No bleeding on the furniture,” he warns.

“I’m very tired,” Genji defends himself, looking indeed, _very_ tired. He follows that immediately with, “Lúcio. Hold my other hand too.”

Lúcio rolls his eyes (he’s not entirely immune to the beseeching look turned his way, but there’s the matter of patching up the boyfriend _before_ obliging him) and motions him toward the table. On it: a fresh roll of gauze and a ziploc of cotton balls laid out next to some medical scissors, medical tape, several small tubes of antibiotic, and a disinfectant spray that Lúcio takes from Genji’s hand and replaces with wipes. “Sit.”

Genji pulls a chair, first glancing at him, then at the bright red kit in mild surprise as the spray disappears inside. He spends a minute staring blankly at the assorted supplies before putting down the wipes and reaching for the scissors.

He proceeds to poke himself with the scissors.

The look Genji turns on the tool could be described as ‘inconveniently betrayed’. “Ow.”

“I’ll do it,” Lúcio sighs, deciding he’s seen enough. For a moment it looks as if Genji wants to argue, stubbornness fueled by fatigue brewing in the line of his brow. But reason eventually wins out: both the scissors and the injury end up in Lúcio’s hands.

Peeling back the bandages and tape takes some doing, and Lúcio takes his time. Luckily (or unluckily) the continuous bleeding means nothing sticks too hard to the skin, though the winter weather means what parts _did_ stick leave the skin chapped and dry. Genji watches him work with his head in the crook of his arm, body slumped over the table’s surface, only making an occasional nonverbal noise of complaint as the dressing pulls, detaches, and lifts away completely.

The biggest of the cuts scoring the meat of his thumb pulls apart the minute it’s exposed to air. Under Lúcio’s fingers Genji’s entire forearm twitches violently at the sight, just once. When the first drop of blood has hit the table Genji has pulled his hand from him and sat up; by the time there’s a steady drip between the injury and the (fortunately, fiberglass-shielded) wood his other hand has closed over the wrist in a vice grip, an emergency tourniquet.

Dropping the disinfectant wipes, Lúcio snags a rag from the kitchen pantry instead. “It’s clean,” he assures, when Genji gives it a critical glance. Once the injury is pressed closed and the hand is in a fist, holding the cloth firmly to itself, Lúcio opens up the first aid kit again.

He finds the adhesive stitches in a side pocket.

Genji studies his hands. The veins show starkly on his skin - one side pale with blood loss and constriction, the other dark with exertion. “Worse than I thought,” he quips, more lightly than sits well with present company.

“I noticed,” Lúcio mutters, tearing several butterfly strips out of their packaging.

His tone doesn’t go unheard; Genji closes his mouth on whatever he was about to say next, and looks at him. The apology is clear in his silence, but he doesn’t say it aloud - just lets go of the cloth to see if the bleeding has slowed. It has, but not enough. He regards the bloodied rag, finds a corner that’s not too red yet to close his fingers over, and sighs.

They wait until his hand looks ashen, almost plasticky, to check again.

“Okay.” Lúcio nods, leaning in with a wipe. Genji curls his nose at the alcohol evaporating on his skin, but makes no other sound.

Getting the stitches to adhere properly takes them the next twenty minutes, Lúcio alternately wiping away stray blood and angling the strips over his skin while Genji mostly sits still. The cut doesn’t split again when he lets go of his wrist, letting the blood back into his fingers gradually, and he waits as Lúcio goes over it and the others - shallower ones, no less in need of attention - with more wipes and some antibiotic gel.

Lúcio sets the empty tube aside once the work is done. A breath of relief blows past his lips, breaking the silence that's descended without either of them really acknowledging it. He sits back in his seat. The chair creaks as he crosses his arms.

“I think,” he begins.

“I’m sorry,” Genji starts at the same time, then blinks. “You first,” he says, sitting back himself - swaying a little before finding his balance, coming to a rest with his forearms leaning on the table. Listening.

Lúcio runs his bottom lip through his teeth. Best to start with the obvious. “You aren’t getting enough sleep, are you?”

There’s a pause before Genji answers. “I am getting the usual amount. Sol has been busy. But,” he sighs, “you’re right; I am more tired than I would normally be.”

“So what’s—” _What’s different,_ is what he’s about to ask, but Lúcio realizes what it is before he can finish the sentence.

Genji rubs his chin with his good hand. Then he covers his entire mouth with the heel of the palm. “Well,” he says, resting his jaw on the knuckles next.

“ _You_ ,” Lúcio interrupts, punctuating the word with an empty sterile wrapper thrown across the table at the entirely too smug, green-headed man, “shut up. I’m being serious.” He watches Genji smother chuckles into his sleeve and scoffs, biting back a smile. “You know what, fine. If that’s all it is, I'm just not gonna wake you up when I come home anymore.”

“You don’t have to. I wake up when I hear the door to my room open,” Genji replies wryly, trying and failing to sober his expression for Lucio’s benefit. “I’m still not completely used to... sharing a room with someone again.”

Dammit. That actually sounds reasonable.

Lúcio frowns. “Well—”

“Consecutively,” Genji goes on. “With the same person. It’s actually very nice, I was thinking of asking him ou—”

Lúcio throws the rest of the wrappers at him with more force than strictly required. “Alright, okay. I get it,” he groans, burying his face in his hands. He draws them down just enough to level a warning glare over the tips of his fingers. “Just remember you’re not gonna die from a lack of sex like you are from lack of blood, _Casanova_. Especially if you keep injuring yourself like that.”

“I don’t injure myself that often,” Genji retorts. He tries to sweep up the littered tabletop with both sets of fingers, and ends up wincing instead. “Only every few years, maybe. Once a year, tops.” He pauses. “Is that a threat?”

“Is it working?” Lúcio smirks. His eyes trail over the bloodied rags on the table, absently, and the smirk falters. “That was a lot of blood, Genji. Just tell me when you're tired. I'll let you sleep.”

Genji hesitates. Lúcio watches his hands; the pad of his right forefinger taps lightly against the table, a tell that he’s weighing his thoughts. Not one that ever lasts long, though; it only ever happens right before he chooses to act. He’d done it the night he’d asked Lúcio to move in with him, too, and sure enough: when he finally speaks, his hands have gone decisively still.

“I’m sorry, Lúcio. I didn’t want to worry you,” Genji admits. He finds Lúcio’s gaze with his own, and holds it. “And the thing about the door - I was telling the truth. It’s a habit of mine, but I will get used to it eventually.”

Lúcio mulls it over. “Okay,” he pronounces, slowly.

“In the meantime, I don’t mind being awake to see you’re home.” Genji’s eyes flicker to the table, then back up. “If it would reassure you, I could take a sleeping aid.”

They've known each other long enough to recognize when one of them means it. Lúcio knows that Hanzo has insomnia; that he keeps a bottle of pea-sized tablets for it in his corner of the medicine cabinet. He doesn't know whether the man would actually lend them a few, but Genji seems to think so, clearly. He tilts his head, waiting. Lúcio presses his lips together.

“I think we’re both tired enough that we can really sleep if we want to,” he reasons. “I just don't want you hurting yourself like this again.” In the absence of sleeves to fiddle with, he thumbs at the edge of his tattoo: black ink, solid shapes in the figure of a stylized frog. A reminder of his life before New York. “And… maybe I like it when you’re there to see me, too. That doesn't have to change.”

“Alright,” Genji agrees easily. “Thank you.”

“For what? You should thank our boss,” Lúcio points out, mildly. “He gave you the day off.” When he goes to stand, Genji stops him, putting a hand over his.

“I can wash the rags out later.”

“They’re gonna stain.” Lúcio raises an eyebrow, but turns his empty palm over; Genji’s fingers squeeze, gently. He squeezes back. “Also, these are Mr. Gabe’s towels.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

They fill a bucket with cold water and soap, and leave everything to soak. The bucket they leave on the floor of the bathtub. (Not in the kitchen; not in the kitchen that four immaculate, germ-hating chefs, not least of them Gabriel Reyes, routinely share. Lúcio’s position at Sol may be front-of-house but he knows at least a _few_ things about the back, like which of the kitchen rules are hardline and which are allowed to be bent.

Cleanliness is one of those rules that are _never_ allowed to be bent.)

Genji bumps his elbow into Lúcio’s arm when he shuffles back into the hall. “What do you want for lunch?” At the doubt in Lúcio’s face he grins, tired but resolved. “I am not bleeding anymore, so I can cook. Pick something other than ramen, though.”

 _Something I can help with,_ Lúcio decides immediately. “Curry,” is what he says aloud, tugging at his locs. He kind of wants to rewrap them; kind of wants to let them be. “But lemme get some more gauze around your hand first.”

An arm falls around his shoulders as they return to the kitchen. Lúcio leans into it, instinctively. The hug he’s expecting to be pulled into doesn’t happen, however, and he looks askance at Genji, catching his profile in the ceiling lights.

Genji notices him looking and turns his head, a question in the line of his brow. “What?”

He draws back a little to ask. Lúcio notices.

One of the most shamelessly tactile people he’s ever met, still so shy at the strangest times. They’ve been dating for seven months - in the bigger picture that's hardly any time at all, but in that time Genji has never overstepped his boundaries purposefully, and Lúcio has never really needed to label any of his advances as unwelcome. So when Genji still hesitates about something that he explicitly trusts him with, that he doesn’t necessarily need to worry so much about, Lúcio can’t help but wonder why.

In any case Genji’s arm lays a little too delicately - as if he’s speculating whether Lúcio would rather go without. Second guessing himself really isn't Genji’s style, the shorter man decides, taking the matter into his own hands.

His palm slides firmly across the small of Genji’s back before coming to a rest on the hip opposite. It takes a second, but Genji takes the cue, and settles his arm over him more assuredly.

When he reels him in for that hug just a little while later, Lúcio is waiting for it.

His eyes close against Genji’s chest; his cheek catches on the material of his shirt. It smells like him, like most of his things do; and while Lúcio is an auditory learner, sound and music inseparable from his perception of the world, science says the olfactory senses are the most intrinsically tied to memory. Whatever Genji reminds him of, it’s warm.

Safe.

His body takes that moment to remind him that he’s about three hours and two weeks’ overtime short of a good night’s rest.

“We should take a nap,” Lúcio mumbles, genuinely tempted by the thought of staying wrapped in these arms, this man, forever.

_...Oh._

He takes the time to be irrationally grateful that Genji doesn’t have anything like heat-detecting sensors on his body. The blush that rises to his face at having caught himself thinking something _that_ cheesy is embarrassingly swift.

Genji hums, thankfully oblivious to everything but finding a good place to rest his chin over the top of Lúcio’s head. “Good idea.” His voice carries through both their chests when he speaks. Lúcio feels it in his ribs, in his hands pressed flat against the broad plane of Genji’s back. “You might actually need it more than I do.”

“Says the guy that filleted his own hand,” Lúcio snipes back, thinking, _definitely an auditory kinda guy, me_. His eyelids droop, traitorously.

“Touché,” Genji replies. Then, "Lúcio?”

He shakes himself. Food. Bandages. "Right. Sorry.”

Genji chuckles, low tenor rumbling pleasantly. He drops his arms, draws Lúcio closer by the waist and rocks on his heels, swaying from side to side - as if to lull him to sleep. Keeping up with the motion actually distracts him from dozing off, though. “Do you want me to carry you to the kitchen?” he asks.

The swaying turns gradually into a miniature slow dance. Improv, or Genji’s plan all along? Lúcio snorts, but his feet move instinctively to the invisible tempo. “Showoff.”

“Showing off,” Genji reminds him primly, “is half the reason I work out in the first place.”

“I know.” It pays off. On him. “I’m good, thanks.”

The dance comes to a quiet end. Genji inhales, exhales, laces his fingers together as best he can with the injury in the way. “I’m glad you are here.”

Lúcio opens his eyes at that, wanting to ask if Genji feels as laughably lucky to have found each other as he does. (He already knows the answer; the answer is yes.) It’s easy to forget, being with him now; but Manhattan is enormous, and New York even bigger. Just a few decisions, coincidences, happenstances differently and he might never have known this: working at Sol, finding his second family, falling for a stranger.

Falling for _Genji_. Being pursued like this. Being worried like this. Being held like this.

He has to reflect the confession back on its speaker, because he intimately feels the same.

“Glad to be here,” he sighs. “Thanks for having me.”

 

* * *

 

Something occurs to Genji as he flops into bed, careful not to jostle his properly dressed injury. He stares at the wall of his - no, _their_ ; his and Lúcio’s - room, bottom half of his face tucked into a pillow, and blinks.

“Oh,” he exclaims suddenly, drawing Lúcio’s attention from the computer desk.

Lúcio’s fingers pause in the middle of composing an email. He flips one side of his headphones away from his ear. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that,” Genji closes, then opens his mouth again, “Reyes definitely knows why we are both so tired.”

It takes all of two seconds for Lúcio’s expression to go from realization to resignation, with about three variations of both emotions sandwiched in between. He looks at Genji. “Oh.”

Genji looks at him. The pillow he’s clutching to himself is hilariously small in comparison to his body. “Are you embarrassed?”

The back of the chair squeaks as Lúcio leans back, considering the question. “You know,” he discovers, “actually? Not as much as I’d thought I’d be.”

“Hmm.”

He feels Genji’s eyes on his back as he returns to plugging away at the laptop. Most days his media presence, online included, doesn’t demand much; other days he has to spend a little more effort on his particular brand of carefully maintained obscurity.

It isn’t that he doesn’t appreciate the support, or the connections and influence that comes with celebrity status. He’d just much rather stay behind the scenes, supporting good people and good ideas, after having attained what he set out to do: finding a way to share his music freely, with the people that need it most. A track or two every year or so is enough to assure fans he isn’t gone for good; in the meantime he answers questions, features guest artists, raises awareness by raising the right voices.

He’d needed the time and the privacy, too. To recover, after spending his first year in New York living in and out of a hospital.

In any case: a colleague of his is organizing a collaboration album and has been bugging him to participate. Normally he would have politely declined, but Ortero is one of his older mutuals - and a genuinely good friend, one of few that stuck around during his infamous hiatus years.

He’s looking over the list of files in his WIP folder when the icon of his desktop messenger blinks.

> the 1 day I finally bring my candy canes  
> ur not here :^(  
> and ur bfs gone too??  
> queonda????

Sombra’s username is a rich, poppy pink, two shades shy of blindingly magenta. Lúcio scoffs, fondly.

> i have the day off remember?

> ohh right  
> what happened to genji then?  
> more for me :^)

> no save some!

> fiiiine  
> u can pay me back l8r

He notes to himself that he should really decide on what to get her for the holidays, and soon. Just because she always figured out what he’d gotten for her before he could give it to her didn’t mean he should put it off. It was the _thought_ that mattered. Or something, anyway.

The messenger app pings him again.

> ugh the oxton girl is working today too  
> she won’t stop talking 2 me help  
> it’s so boring here w/o u and genj

> i know we’re the best  
> didnt lena finally ask that girl to be her gf last week

> yeah she wont stop talking about her  
> ur my fav boys  
> when ur here oxton talks to u instead of me  
> and when genjs here i always get snacks bc of u

> woww

> hanz never messes up  
> boring  
> what happened to genj

> a knife. he hurt himself  
> he’s ok now

> oh  
> did u kiss it better ;^)

“Lúcio,” Genji says. “Aren’t you tired?”

As if he needed reminding. “I,” Lúcio informs him, rotating slowly around in his seat, “am still digesting.”

Genji watches him turn 90, 180, 360 degrees. “You know, you can rest and digest at the same time,” he points out. Impatiently, he rolls over on his back and onto Lúcio’s side of the bed. The pillow still flattened to his chest goes with him. “Bring your laptop over here.”

“Nah, this won’t take long.”

> maybe i should...  
> he’s needy

> wow  
> i had no idea  
> after watching genji making secret eyes at u fr a yr  
> watching the 2 of u flirt evry day for months when u finally noticed him  
> i had noooo idea

> how are you messaging me  
> aren’t you on shift….  
  
> ;^)  
> dont change the subject

His jaw is resting on his thumb and knuckles by this point; it’s the perfect position to roll his eyes at the computer screen, even though Sombra can’t even see. He tabs over to another chat, one from several days ago with Hana, so he can copy and paste an emoji.

> u stole that from DVA  
> amateur

> it’s a cool emoji  
> the eyes mean eyes  
> i still can’t believe genji cut himself

> it happens

> but it’s still crazy, since he owns like an entire armory of knives  
> even aside from the ones at the restaurant

It takes longer for a reply this time; Lúcio manages to narrow down his choices to three tracks meanwhile, and attaches the better two to the email.

A loading bar pops up. Sombra messages him a fraction of a second past 12%.

> sorry got distracted  
> lunch rush imminent

> get offline  
> how is gabriel not catching you doing this  
> I’m not gonna keep enabling you

> nooooo come back

Genji calls his name again; this time it takes longer than a moment for it to register. “Give me a minute,” Lúcio replies, glancing over his shoulder apologetically. “File’s still uploading.” He doesn’t hear the displeased sound that Genji makes in response to that, nor the shift and creak of the mattress decompressing - too busy firing off one-liners with his headphones over his ears to count the minute that ticks steadily by.

Eventually:

> alright Lu  
> u win, im gone 4 real this time

> you’re leaving tomorrow right

> yup  
> don’t miss me too much :^)  
> i’ll be back before new years

> send me a postcard?  
> you know my PO  
> sorry i couldnt say bye in person

> its ok. I forgive u ;^)  
> see u later

When he glances at the loading bar he finds the upload has already been completed.

He sends the email. “Okay, done,” Lúcio announces, flipping his headphones off his head and standing from the desk. There’s no one on the bed to greet him, though, when he turns. He wastes a second looking around uselessly. “Genji?”

It’s a huff of furtive laughter in the silence that gives the ambush away. In the split second it takes for Lúcio to whirl on his heel, he realizes it’s already too late to retaliate - a flash of green hair and a determined smirk is all he gets to see before his blankets obscure his vision, and a broad shoulder folds him over at the stomach.

The sound that escapes his mouth isn’t a _shriek_ , per se. It’s really more like the wail of a rapidly deflating scream. _“Genji!”_

“Yesss?” Genji drawls, cheerfully feigning innocence. He straightens to his full height, snickering, and gasps, “Oh, Lúcio? Is that your voice?”

“Man, shut the _hell_ u—”

Genji turns, sharply, and laughs at the strangled noise that issues from the general direction of Lúcio’s head. “Where did you go? I can’t see you.”

Hand, meet face. “You cannot be serious,” Lúcio grumbles. But he can’t help the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth. “What are you, five?”

Still, he struggles - manages to wrestle the rest of that arm and a shoulder out of the trap, but not before he’s hoisted like a sack of potatoes. Wiggling his legs only reveals that it’s a hopeless endeavor; he’s stuck fast, wrapped in an impenetrable cocoon of winter bedcovers and the vice of Genji’s ridiculous biceps. He knows when Genji learns what he’s realized: he dissolves into more snickering. Louder this time.

The only option left to him, Lúcio decides, is goading.

“Help, I’m being attacked. Help.” His one free limb he puts to good use, pulling at the hem of Genji’s t-shirt, and then his pajama bottoms. He hears the waistband snap against Genji’s hip and cackles at the yelp it elicits. “Whoops, I think I made him ma— whoa hey hey hey!” he exclaims, swaying dangerously in one direction as his captor twists away. Genji swears, tripping over himself in the process. Lúcio laughs. “Careful down there, I’m delicate!”

Genji’s voice finds its way to him, somehow, through several layers of bedding. “Don’t worry,” he tells Lúcio, smugly. “Genji is with you.”

Lúcio braces himself, fully expecting what happens next. True to form Genji doesn’t just drop him onto the bed; he throws him in an arc, and the bedding releases its hold on its victim mid-swing.

Aluminum prosthetics don’t weigh much: Lúcio flails, and bounces. Then the mattress nearly tosses him off when Genji throws himself after, landing right beside him.

“Oyasumi,” Genji proclaims, wasting no time curling himself around his bedmate.

“Don’t _oyasumi_ me.” Lúcio bats at his arm, and sits up when it obligingly retracts. “Hold on a sec.”

Genji waits patiently as he lets down, then rewraps his locs; while the knot is being tied he props himself up on his elbow, reaching for the covers. With his hair secured Lúcio shifts aside as the rumpled comforter is tugged out from under him and smoothed into a semblance of order. He snags his pillow from near the headboard; the instant he sets it down Genji arranges himself and his own pillow next to it, and slides an arm underneath both.

Lúcio falls back with a sigh. The bedsheets are still cool, but they’ll warm quickly with the two of them there to trap heat.

“Your legs?” Genji asks, the words muffled into his forehead; when the response he gets is an elbow draped over his hip and a noncommittal grunt, he presses his lips to the soft skin.

“We’ll only be sleeping a few hours,” Lúcio says, pressing closer. He hears Genji hiss through his teeth when he shoves his other hand up the front of his shirt, and takes a moment to relish the difference in temperature. “That’s what you get,” he smirks.

“Stop.”

Lúcio shifts his hips to tangle their legs together. When Genji moves to accommodate him, he smirks wider, and slaps both of his cold, aluminum feet flat against the taller man’s shins.

Genji sputters - but doesn’t recoil, reluctant to pull away when they’ve finally settled down. A mistake. He manages to start wheezing, “ _Sto—”_ before Lúcio’s toes catch and drag one leg of his pants up, blatantly grazing the inside of his knee, at which point the rest of his complaints die a high, garbled death in his mouth. Still, he makes no move to shake the offending limbs.

No, that's a lie. He grabs the end of the covers with one vengeful fist and throws them over Lúcio’s head.

Lúcio accepts his fate, and the sudden darkness, and being alone with only Genji’s pecs for company, with surprising dignity. “Wow.” His hand wanders up the torso, in search of warmer real estate; the muscle corded over Genji’s ribs twitches as his fingers brush past. “Real mature.”

A shape that is approximately palm-sized pats his cheek, awkwardly through the thick comforter. “I know.” In afterthought: “Are you enjoying the view?”

The only proper reaction is to laugh, which he does. “It’s a little dark in here to see,” he snorts, finding the line of Genji’s collarbone. His palm splays, just under it. Right over the heart. “Feels nice, though.”

Genji huffs lightly, seeing fit to free him for that compliment; Lúcio emerges blinking, tired pupils contracting too slowly at the sudden light for it to be worth keeping them open. He pulls the shirt he rumpled up back down, as a gesture of goodwill, and nestles deeper into the covers as they finally, _finally_ draw together.

Their legs even tangle. Properly, this time.

“Did you really crush on me for an entire year?” Lúcio asks, suddenly curious.

“What?” Genji replies, unsticking his eyelids to look at him strangely; then, “Who told you that?”

“Sombra.”

He makes a disgruntled noise, low in his throat. “I did not.” After a moment he leans his head back, breath fanning over the pillowcase, and shuts his eyes again.

“Oh.” Lúcio watches him, then goes back to nosing at his jaw. “Ok.”

“It was at least a year and a half.”

Lúcio falls silent. Genji looks down at him, and the corners of his mouth lift at the smile that’s threatening to burst, irrepressible, over his boyfriend’s face. At least, until Lúcio turns his face into the mattress to hide his fluster. “Genji, that's... that’s almost the whole time I’ve been at Sol."

“You took me by surprise,” Genji admits, thoughtfully. His gaze goes briefly distant, lost in some recollection of the past as he goes on, “I didn't expect to fall so quickly, but you were brilliant, Lúcio. You still are. I could not look away.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s true.” His smile is still sly - but it softens around his eyes, warm gaze catching the other's point-blank, sincerity unmistakable in the set of his mouth and brow. "You are. I was..." He laughs, weakly. "At one point, I was almost convinced you were never going to be interested in me, and thought I should prepare to move on. But I wanted to ask you out first. At least  _once._ "

"No way. A guy like you?" Lúcio balks, his reaction so palpably honest that Genji actually _flushes_ at the esteem being directed his way. "Oh, geez, you're being serious. I _—_ You _—_ Genji," he groans, dragging a hand down his face, "alright; to be fair I started crushing on you a lot later than you me, but for the longest time I just assumed you wouldn't be interested."

The look Genji turns on him is nothing short of incredulous. "No?"

"Well, you know, you were just..." He trails, picking at the collar of Genji's tee. "...a co-worker. Okay, not just a co-worker," he amends, lips twisting at Genji's expression of skepticism."A really nice, _really unfairly attractive_  co-worker who was definitely way too ripped for a chef, and yet somehow happened to be sous." He pauses. "There was a lot happening with me back then."

"I know."

"Yeah. But I saw you in the kitchen once during week one and I remember thinking, god, you were something else. Even with that hair. And even though you drank way too much coffee every day, for some reason, and kept coming out of the kitchen to get it. You always spent _so long_  talking to Lena and Sombra between peak hours _—_ "

Genji winces, expression morphing from surprise into something incredibly pained. "Not _just_ them," he offers.

"Well, yeah, but..."

Lúcio blinks. Then sucks in a breath as he  _realizes_ , all at once. 

"Oh my god, really? How was I so dense?" he moans, and Genji chokes on his own mortified laughter. "Alright, but listen, you flirted with them so much, gatinho!How was I supposed to know you were interested in _me_ when all you ever did was _—_  Wait, wait, wait. Hold up. The first time you caught me by the espresso machine. Did I ever actually tell you how I take my coffee?"

"No," Genji replies, looking for all intents and purposes like the cat that got the cream  - even with a blush still coloring three-quarters of his face, as he realizes he'd spent months sending mixed messages toward what he'd thought had been an unrequited crush. He's decided to let the jab at his hair go. It's too difficult to argue while his face is the color of a tomato and he's too embarrassed to even _think_ about eye contact. "I made an educated guess."

Oh, no. That's too cute. “Sombra told you, didn't she."

"...Yes."

"So that was you trying to talk to me." Lúcio smiles, visibly taken with the idea now that he sees their earliest conversations in a new light. "That long, huh?” he murmurs. 

Genji coughs. “Apparently, since it seems I had been sabotaging myself. I thought I was being obvious enough near the end, though..."

“Only the end?” Lúcio teases, and appreciates the resurgence of pink in the other's countenance. “That's fair. 'Preciate the honesty.” Tension seeps out of his body - at first at a crawl, and then in a hurry. He’s sinking into the mattress, lured to sleep by fatigue and the reassuring weight of an arm over his shoulders. “Lucky for you I liked it.”

Gently, Genji’s fingers thread through his. “Lucky for me," he echoes.

Lúcio lets his eyes fall closed as the other man leans in to steal a single kiss. "And me."

He notes, absently, that his hands aren’t cold anymore.

For a long while they make no sound - the room is quiet, except the low hum of computer equipment, and the soft noises of two people falling asleep with each other. If there’s a word for that feeling - the awareness of such a delicate, consuming affection, and experiencing it without words, suspended in time - Lúcio can live with it escaping him. As long as Genji’s there, feeling it too.

“The lights,” Lúcio laments, just as consciousness begins to fade, fighting a losing battle against a yawn.

“Too late,” Genji mumbles, so drowsily it’s barely enunciated. “Sleep now.” His thumb draws slow circles over the back of Lucio’s hand, oblong shapes that falter longer with every gradual exhale.

“Just a few hours,” Lúcio whispers.

“Mhm.”

The exhaustion of a sous chef’s career takes Genji first. Lúcio follows not long after, ears still tuned to the sound of his breathing. Someone - Gabriel, Hanzo, maybe even Jesse - eventually notices the light through the crack under their door and knocks, close to midnight. When they poke their head through at the lack of response, they see Genji squinting waspishly from the bed. The switch is pointedly turned off before they take their leave.

Genji checks the time and gets up just long enough to remove Lúcio’s prosthetics for him, fetch two glasses of water, and draw the blinds over their window. He falls asleep again, this time with Lúcio at his back.

They remain in bed until morning, until Genji stirs just a few minutes before 7AM, waking Lúcio with a kiss to his temple.

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to [PunkHazard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard) for allowing me to write for this AU and pushing me to finish this monster of a one-shot. Sorry I posted this while you were asleep. That's what you get. 
> 
> I'll go back and edit this when I'm not dead.  
> Final edits made 1/23/17.  
> Edits made to the last 1/3 of the fic + how Lúcio addresses Gabriel, 5/28/17
> 
> Song title from the lyrics of Yoonmirae's [잠깐만 Baby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iivtnlQXoQE), my personal soundtrack to this AU (and gencio in general really).


End file.
